by Lisa Black
The conversation didn’t pick up much from there.
Her nineteen-year-old child responded in civil monosyllables, asked how her mother’s day had been and courteously listened to a brief description of the construction site. She chuckled dutifully at the description of ‘uncle’ Frank on the zip lift. With more detailed questioning, Rachael reported that she was fine, healthy, and if she sounded a bit morose it must be due to a history test she had looming at the end of the week. She hung in, letting Theresa decide to end the phone call after ten minutes and put them both out of this unspoken mutual misery.
Theresa didn’t tell her how many hours she had spent with a now-orphaned girl, that it had been the kind of workday that made her crave the sound of her daughter’s voice, made re-establishing her connections in this world a necessity more vital than food or light. She simply snapped her phone shut.
Her daughter was not angry with her – Rachael never had any problem expressing anger. Nor did she sound depressed; at least, not the sort of occasional depression that touched all teenage girls, with heavy sighs and ominous predictions of a bereft future. She didn’t sound evasive or guilty or hurt. But clearly she had something on her mind, and equally clearly she did not want to tell Theresa about it. And Theresa didn’t know what to do except follow the parenting maxims: give her space, but leave the lines of communication open. Let her know she can come to you whenever necessary.
Rachael did know that, didn’t she?
It had been a less than satisfactory evening all around. Scott Crain, urban activist, had explained his cryptic comment by telling Frank and Angela that he had met Samantha Zebrowski at House of Blues, recognized her from the work site, and converted her to their cause. Or at least begun to convert her. It sounded as if she had been converted only so long as he bought the rounds, but of course a psychic autopsy could not be performed without a lot more information so at present no one knew what Samantha’s true feelings had been. That had been his only interaction with the dead woman and none of his cohorts had met her, so far as he knew, and he refused to reveal their names. Not that that mattered, Frank confided to Theresa, because the group had to have a permit to demonstrate at the site. The members of PETI – People for the Ethical Treatment of Inmates – would be listed on their permit application at city hall. Theresa remembered the flyer in Samantha’s bedroom and made a mental note to tell Frank about it.
Just before her cousin had guided Scott Crain into the back seat of their police car, he had turned to Theresa, the slanting orange light from the overhead tungsten street lamp giving his eyes a demonic glow.
‘Them, I can see. But you’re a scientist, supposed to be searching for the truth. How can you be a party to this assault on human decency?’
Too surprised to respond, she watched Frank push him into place before she could point out how her part in a murder investigation had nothing whatever to do with the social theory surrounding the prison design. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway. Crain had the flush of a fanatic, and even eminently logical reasons would be only excuses in his mind.
The phone rang again, and Theresa snapped it up lest it be her daughter on the other end, having decided to change tactics and spill.
Alas, the voice was distinctly masculine. ‘Theresa? I’m sorry to bother you after hours. Your switchboard gave me your phone number. I hope that’s all right.’
Ian Bauer. ‘Sure,’ she said, though the deskmen on night duty had been instructed over and over not to give out people’s cell phone numbers, and over and over they thought it terribly funny to do so anyway.
‘I just wanted to find out if you got the tox results back yet, and if there had been any surprises at the autopsy.’
‘You watch too much TV, counselor.’
He laughed, low and smooth. Without his unfortunate face to distract a person, she realized that he had a lovely voice, deep and mellifluous. It rolled over her like a warm but mysterious fog, strange and new and somehow enticing.
Whoa. Where did that come from?
‘I know, don’t tell me. Lab tests aren’t ready by the next commercial break and real CSIs turn the lights on. Anything at the autopsy?’
‘Besides a lot of broken bones? No. She was otherwise healthy, not pregnant, and her last meal probably included tortilla chips.’
‘Hmm.’ He pondered that longer than she expected, then said, ‘Tavern on the Mall is right there. They have a taco salad.’
‘Did you just run through the menu in your head?’
‘It’s on my way home. I’m a bachelor and they have half-price appetizers during happy hour, so yeah, I have a file drawer in my head just for menus. But there’s plenty of other places she could have gone – Moriarty’s, 1890 . . . though that would probably be a higher price range than she’d want . . .’
‘She had her car with her, so she could have eaten in Shaker Heights, Lakewood, or at home for all we know. I guess it just doesn’t make sense to me that she’d stop by her work site if it were out of her way.’
‘Lord knows I never do. Much. But what I also called to tell you is that Samantha Zebrowski had no criminal record beyond some speeding tickets and one DUI last summer that was eventually dropped.’
‘Yeah, Frank told me that.’
After a brief pause he went on. ‘Also that the job site itself has been largely accident-free. The most serious injury before today required only seven stitches and some antibiotic ointment. The worksite, however, has a lot of enemies. Public meetings regarding the school administration building got hot enough to call in extra security as the history buffs and the “we need jobs” camp butted heads. The county execs received several death threats – not that that’s anything new in the world of local politics – and one council member came within a hair’s breadth of quitting but, sadly, didn’t. Then there’s a group called PETI – not PETA, PETI—’
‘I’m aware.’ She told him of her evening’s adventure at the dark construction site.
Again, a longer silence than she would have expected. Then he said, ‘I wouldn’t be too quick to dismiss them. Two years ago Scott Crain started a group to protest building a casino on Whiskey Island. They went so far as to threaten the developer’s family, including his children. They also sent a note to the financier promising an attack on his person.’
‘With spray paint?’
‘With dynamite. His car exploded outside his office in Lakewood. It barely totaled the car and didn’t harm anyone, but if he’d been inside he’d now have years of plastic surgery to pay off. Crain’s group did not claim responsibility but neither did anyone else. Friend of mine prosecuted the case but didn’t get a conviction.’
‘So if a stack of I-beams had been blown up, we might want to look at them. But would Scott Crain throw a young girl off a building? Especially since – here’s the rest of the story – he claims to have met her at House of Blues and shown her the light. He says his final cryptic comment meant that PETI would convert all the construction workers, as well as the rest of the city, to their viewpoint.’
‘Do you believe him?’
‘Don’t know. She did have that city hall phone number in her purse. She could have been checking out his credentials.’ Theresa took the Southpark mall exit off of 71. ‘My best guess is still that Samantha Zebrowski went there for love and found anger. From the condition of her car, parked in its usual spot, I have to believe she went there of her own free will. She was the one who must have known how to get in. She planned to impress the wrong kind of date, and her plan backfired.’ She braked at the utterly-impossible-to-get-through-without-stopping light at Howe. ‘Unless the person she fought with also worked at the job site. That would open up a whole new list of reasons for her to be there other than looking for love in all the wrong places.’
‘Aren’t we all?’ She sighed, and when an awkward silence ensued she prompted: ‘What other reasons?’
‘Theft. Corporate espionage. Maybe Crain told the truth and she was scouting o
ut opportunities for sabotage. Or she and a co-worker or -workers were up to something, and there was a falling out.’
‘Then where does her daughter fit in?’
‘I have no idea.’ Ian Bauer remained silent for a few moments as Theresa pulled into her driveway. Then he said, ‘OK, but one third possibility before I get off the phone and let you enjoy what’s left of your evening. Maybe Samantha Zebrowski didn’t intend to meet anyone, simply went out for a bite, drove past her workplace and was struck by a sudden desire to see the city lights from twenty-three floors up. Would someone who sweated at that site all day really want to do that?’
‘I would,’ Theresa said.
‘Me too. OK, so she slips through the gate, somehow has her daughter in tow as well. Then she comes upon a co-worker who’s engaged in theft, or sabotage, or corporate espionage.’
‘And they have to make sure she doesn’t tell anyone.’
‘But that still leaves the kid. It’s just a possibility.’ She heard him exhale in a sigh. ‘One of many.’
‘Maybe we should ask Chris Novosek if he’s had any signs of an enemy in his midst.’ She turned off her car but stayed in her seat, listening to Ian Bauer’s voice in the darkness.
‘Speaking of Novosek, that’s what else I found out.’ He didn’t wait for her to ask, ‘What?’ which she appreciated. ‘I checked his record too. One juvie charge, four parking tickets, and three civil suits pending, all three relating to previous building projects.’
‘Safety violations?’
She could hear him shaking his head. ‘Sexual harassment. All three suits brought by female construction workers on his job sites. I guess our head foreman isn’t quite as egalitarian as he likes to let on.’
TWENTY
It had been a number of years since he climbed a tree, but he shimmied up the branch like a squirrel on his way to a really big nut. It groaned and scraped against the roof to remind him that he weighed considerably more than an eleven-year-old girl. Then it snapped up when he stepped off it on to the shingles, shaking like a devil and causing the tree to release a bunch of the helicopter-like seeds to rain down on him, landing on the roof like an impromptu hailstorm. Then when that wave of sound managed not to wake anyone inside (that he could tell) he took some cautious steps forward and slid on those same seeds, knocking one knee into the shingles with a thud that seemed to reverberate through the structure.
Damn, he thought in a rare moment of self-doubt. I suck at this.
He made it to the window as quietly as he could and stayed there for a while, peering through the window. The tree also served as cover, hiding him from anyone who might pass by on the street as well as blocking the light from the pole further up which would have reflected off the glass. As it was he could see into the room well enough to know that it must be the kid’s room. A decorated mirror over a sagging set of drawers and stuffed animals on the bed. Though that didn’t mean it couldn’t be Sam’s room. Lots of grown-up girls still kept stuffed animals on their beds. Which told you everything you needed to know about women, really.
He put one hand under the window frame and pushed. It slid upward without a sound.
Good job, kid.
He waited for the night air to flow into the room, for the angel/demon girl to stick her head up from the stuffed animals and shriek like a banshee. Then he waited some more.
Nothing.
He pulled himself through the window, the sound of his pants on the asphalt shingles ringing in the ears. But no cry ensued. One by one he put his feet on the floor. No sound from the rest of the house, and the girl hadn’t screamed because there was no girl in the bed. He checked the floor next to it, even crossed to the closet. Nothing.
Unless she had heard him coming. A kid might not do the sensible thing, which would be to call 911 or at least run and wake up her grandmother. She might do the kid thing and hide under her bed.
He crouched down, flipped up the edge of the quilt.
Darker than blindness in that storage space. If he intended to make a habit of this he needed to start carrying a mini flashlight. But if she hid there she managed not to either scream, twitch or breathe, and he didn’t think an eleven-year-old would have that kind of self-control. He abandoned the bedroom and went out into the hall.
The second window on the north side let in just enough light to guide him past the bathroom – empty, as well as he could determine – to the other bedroom. This one must be Sam’s – what looked like a purse on the vanity, high heels and jeans strewn about, and the odor of stale cigarettes in the air. He took a few steps into the room, checked that bed, both sides of it and underneath – no kid, no grandma.
He went to the top of the stairs, paused. What was he doing here again? If he could have made off with the kid, snapped her neck and then carried her across the street to that empty house, that would help matters. But if he got the grandma involved too, then what would he do?
He should just leave. Go out the way he came in, and cut his losses while still ahead.
His foot found the top step as if it had floated there, drifting along on a draft of fate.
This isn’t smart, he warned himself, but his feet kept finding more steps. They also seemed to find every creak and groan in the wood of those steps as he waited for a light to flick on, for a little girl’s cry or the reedy voice of an old lady to say, ‘Who are you?’ And yet he didn’t stop.
The ground floor had more ambient light, what with two large front windows and glowing standby lights from the television, the stereo, the answering machine and the coffee maker. How had thieves ever accomplished anything without standby lights?
The living room occupied the front half of the house, which wasn’t saying much. It barely had room for a couch, chair, coffee table and TV stand. A bathroom had been tucked under the stairs and the back of the house held a kitchen and another room. Hanging curtains closed it off from both the kitchen and the living room. He crept up to the gap in the middle.
Nothing too exciting, just the grandma snoring away underneath a triangle dangling over her head. Maybe the kid was in there with her, somewhere under the comforter, who knew. He could take care of both of them, the kitchen must have a ready supply of weapons, but knifing grandma in her bed would be, again, showy. He should probably avoid showy. But it would be easy then, to grab the kid and go. No, if you’re going to be showy with the grandma then you might as well do the kid right here.
He debated. The old woman snorted, shifted slightly, snored some more.
As he thought, his gaze fell on the coffee table, and suddenly he remembered the other reason he had come into the house. Under the dark blotches of coffee cups and magazines, the kid’s backpack sat propped against one leg.
He promptly forgot about killing the grandma and snatched it up. It might not be the same one, of course, but he felt sure it must be. How many backpacks would the little bitch have, and surely Samantha and the grandma didn’t use one. To have it sitting there ready to catch his eye just as he pondered killing Mrs Zebrowski, that had to be a sign. He had been meant to find it, and now that he had he should go. He must have missed the kid; she had already escaped this little palace and taken to the streets. Just like her mother. Going to get hurt, doing that.
He decided to leave via the back door, recalling from his childhood how climbing down a tree had been nothing at all like climbing up it. It had three dead bolts and a knob lock, and he turned these quietly and stealthily. The door scraped against the jamb as he opened it, but he had already figured the grandma for half-deaf and didn’t worry about it.
Then he heard a sound from the second floor.
TWENTY-ONE
When Theresa arrived at the construction site at 6:33 the following morning, the sun had just peeked over the horizon, its beams blocked by low, gray clouds so that the site seemed to glow in a sort of unholy dusk.
Frank and Chris Novosek and a stranger waited for her at the edge of the ground floor, wearing identical an
d grim expressions. She gave Novosek a fresh once-over in light of what Ian Bauer had told her, but if he harbored any lecherous feelings they had been well pushed aside by the morning’s events. His face spoke only of pain and deep worry.
The new guy had a few extra pounds on his 5’ 10’ frame, a trimmed salt-and-pepper beard and a hard hat. He wore a white shirt and tie with his black jeans and a windbreaker he obviously didn’t need, since sweat dampened his brow.
Unlike the previous day, no noise existed at the site, no attempt to continue with work as usual. Silence surrounded them instead of men in hard hats. The only sounds – voices, the squeal of tires – came over the fence from another world.
‘What’s going on?’ she asked in lieu of greeting.
Frank said only, ‘This way,’ and headed into the interior.
Chris Novosek put a hand on her elbow to help her up the high step on to the foundation, since she carried a camera bag, a fingerprint kit and the small suitcase they used as a basic crime-scene kit. It added about twenty five pounds to her total weight. Concrete dust and other dirt crunched under her shoes.
‘This is State Inspector Kobelski,’ Novosek told her, adding: ‘It’s bad. Almost worse than Sam.’
She didn’t ask him to explain, preferring to see the body with an open mind. But in another moment she knew exactly what he meant.
In the center of the building sat the bottom of the open shaft that would become the elevator bank. It appeared to measure, to Theresa’s unpracticed eye, about thirty feet by fifteen, and at this point consisted of nothing but extra vertical beams with a central empty space plus a sparse collection of rebar sticking up from the base like punji sticks. And speared atop these sticks stretched the body of a man.
He wore worn jeans and a plaid flannel shirt, now punctured in three places. Feet to the north, head to the south. One of the iron rods had gone through his neck and opened his carotid, so that he bled out in spectacular fashion. Nearly every drop of blood that had been in his body now gathered in a sticky pool two feet underneath his body and his skin had turned a blueish pale. This left his body fairly clean and his face unblemished, if you didn’t notice how he had landed with his head turned to one side and a stick of rebar had entered his left temple, bulging that eye out to twice its usual protuberance. Even so, Theresa instantly recognized their newest victim.
